Tavin Shire

Apprehensions grew with each stride, soon turning to anger and accusation, as the image of his godly mother lying dead across the threshold of their family home seared as deeply as a hot branding iron into his brain. “And what about God? He wasn’t there yesterday. My mother lay dead. My brother is dying, and my sisters are lost. Where was God?” Without confidence or faith, he continued to move forward as if he had both, taking one dubious step at a time. The path widened as it forked away from the Swatara and approached the Shamokin Path. Rays of late sunshine pulsed through the broad clearing ahead. Barren trees gently swayed against the brilliant sky, casting thin quivering shadows across the well-trodden trail. Rainwater from the night before shimmered in perfect stillness outlining deep wagon tracks, cutting through sticky mud like slithering snakes. Tavin stopped, debating which way to go. “South. To the Terrence watch house,” he assertively pronounced, his reasoning clear for the first time. “God, if you hear me, ask my mother to forgive me. I must leave her lay and find help for my sisters. I cannot do this alone.” His confidence in God’s dependability remained uncertain, yet his mother’s unflappable faith had planted too many seeds to ignore. Breaking off into the forest, Tavin forged through the damp, thick undergrowth, ducking beneath low hanging limbs, keeping close enough to see the trail, but far enough away should he need to take cover. Pushing all else aside, the miles slipped past, as he trained his thoughts on his sisters, forcing himself forward. Clawing branches slapped at his face and briars grappled at his arms and legs. Climbing long, steep, slippery hills and scrambling down rocky embankments, the only sound he heard was his own heavy breathing. His lungs felt torched. “Katherine, Berta.” Their faces rang across his memories like a funeral song. Panting as he leaned against a tree to catch his breath. “There’s no time to rest. Keep moving,” he said loudly scolding himself. Running his hand through his dirty, sweaty hair, he was suddenly aware of how his voice seemed to carry through the brimming silence. Bleak and oppressive stillness followed as he continued on. Shifting his musket off his shoulder, to his hand, he stopped cold in his tracks. Squinting through the tangled brush he saw a dark shape laying across the trail in the distance. Quickly jumping behind a fallen oak for barricade, he waited, pressing his back firmly against the rotting bark. A bird sang a melody overhead, as Tavin strained his ears to hear any sounds. Gradually peering over the tree, he could make out the grim contour of a man’s body.